


Rumors of War

by tardis



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, Gen, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shell Shock, WWII, Women Being Awesome, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardis/pseuds/tardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brave ones were shooting the enemy. The crazy ones were shooting film. OFC-centric, slow burn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I - England

**Author's Note:**

> The story will be OC-centric but I'm not sure if there will be anything remotely romantic, though there will probably be inklings because that's just how it is. It'll follow the mini-series but the whole thing is evolving organically, man.

" _If you go long enough without a bath, even the fleas will leave you alone._ ” – Ernie Pyle 

 **May 1944, London 13:15**  

It had been nearly three years since I had been in England, and the change that the country had gone through couldn't have been more apparent. Even though I was only taking in the surface as the Private First Class drove me through the city to where I'd been informed days ago I'd be staying, but I could tell things were different. It was in the air, in the people, in the city streets. I had thought many times on my trip back that maybe the people would have looked shabbier than before when I was there during the Blitz, but if anything they looked neater, crisper. The revelation made me wonder what home looked like, how normal every day Americans were fairing. Four years of war didn't look so bad on the British.

_They wear the war like a badge of honor._

Despite the uncomfortable seat of the jeep a unfamiliar calm swept over me whiles I chewed on the end of my lit cigarette, looking up to the sky. It was odd not to see it full of Spitfires and Hurricanes engaged in their dogfights with the Luftwaffe, an odd but a good, lovely thing. I took it as a sign that the war was almost over. Even the city, London, seemed less dreary than it had in 1941; the light at the end of the tunnel was in sight. The constant rumors of the invasion, because everyone knew it was going to happen, seemed to do the people well.

_The distraction of constant hope._

"We're here ma'am."

Noticing that we had in fact arrived out front of the Savoy Hotel—a place I had never dreamt of staying before—I quickly clamored out of the jeep, slamming the door shut as I shouldered my tattered musette bag. I chucked my half done cigarette into the nearby gutter before reaching into my jacket pocket and pulled out my half gone packer of Lucky Strikes. Without even looking at the PFC I tossed them into the seat as a sign of thanks, as accustom.

"Thanks for the ride, Private. Stay safe."

I hadn't even realized what I had done until I was pushing open the doors of the Savoy Hotel and entering the lobby, my Marine field cap off my head and in my hands. The words and actions had really been automatic—that's what you did in a war zone when someone drove you out of the way but that PFC hadn't seen action and was greener than the highlands, he didn't understand the meaning behind the action. He didn't understand that your last smoke could be, in fact, _the_ last smoke before biting the big one. Now I was out a pack of smokes and some shit was sitting all high and mighty with them.

Heaving a sigh, I made my way through the oversized lobby towards the front desk, dodging military personal with each step. Just like I'd always believed, the inside of the Savoy was beautiful, even with all the war material protecting the interior. There was no denying that the checkered marble tiles under my boots were probably clean enough to eat off of—I could see my own reflection for Pete's sake—and they probably would have been gleaming in the light if sandbags weren't blocking the windows. When I looked up I could spot a few cracks in the molded work (maybe from a bomb dropping too close for comfort?) but there wasn't any time to really take in the room. There were so many people I was being jostled and shoved every which way, I was seeing so much OD green I thought Britain had been invaded by Americans instead of the Germans—everywhere I seemed to look I saw the telltale OD or pink trousers with their matching jackets, garrison caps and overly shinned brass buttons and colorful ribbons. Sure, there were a few Brits sprinkled among the lot but majority were Yanks, it was a hilarious sight considering what the country had looked like the last time I'd been there.

_If we're not careful the British just might think this is their country after all._

By the time I made it to the front desk my presence had not gone unnoticed in the sea of pinks and OD trousers. While everyone looked as though they belonged in some Hollywood film and everybody looked like everyone else I stood out like a sore thumb. I became acutely aware of the eyes boring into my back as I dropped my field cap on the counter top and hit the small silver bell for service, leaving my hands free to fidget while I waited.

Out of sheer nervousness I hit the bell again.

I thought I looked pretty sharp, all things considered. The few pieces of clothing I had to travel with had been cleaned for the first time in months when the B-17 had stopped in Greenland—before that I'd been sitting pretty in mud and blood stained clothes that smelled to high heavens. After they were washed though I didn't feel like a grunt. I felt like a human being again, clean and new. Sure, the dirt and mud and well, the blood stains couldn't come out one-hundred-percent but they were less noticeable to a civilian eye than they would have been to a military eye…unfortunately I was surrounded by a sea of those trained to noticed the chicken shit detail.

_Did the entire staff run off to invade France? Jesus._

After waiting patiently for a few minutes and still no service I hit the silver bell for a third time and threw a shifty glance over my shoulder. Definitely attracting more attention than I wanted, I'd never been stared at so much in my entire life—and that included the times when I found myself as the sole woman on US Naval ship. I suppose I couldn't blame them, I was a sight, I knew this. While they were dressed in manners that could revival any photograph, I had trekked into the public sphere looking like a refugee. 

I had tried to put myself together; I had honestly made an attempt to look a bit put together while wearing the Aussie battle dress jacket I'd won in a poker game and Marine field issue blouse and pants. That of course was all topped off with my field cap and the infantry boots I'd been lucky to commandeer from the Army when they finally decided to show up on Guadalcanal. I was almost certain the only reason I didn't have any one of the officers in the room yelling down my throat was the fact that I was a woman, and I was only saved from that was because there wasn't a WAC officer in sight—otherwise I was sure I'd have some explaining to do, military or not. On the other hand, the absurdity and shock of my shitty get up was probably what kept the Savoy staff from tossing me out on sight.

"Can I help you…madam?"

I turned back around to the front desk just in time to see a look of disgust flutter across the Englishman's face before returning to a neutral state. It was apparent he tacked on the _madam_ as an afterthought so I could already tell we were going to have a lovely exchange. He was tall, like a bean stock and going a bit bald with a wormy disposition that I didn't particularly like and stood ramrod straight in a slight variation of the standard hotel uniform _. Assistant manager_.

"Yes," I replied smoothly. "I'm supposed to have a room here; someone made the reservation for me ahead of time. It should be booked under—"

"Are you sure you're not mistaken, miss?" He questioned me in a tone that suggested he was speaking to a particularly slow toddler. "Are you sure you don't mean to stay somewhere farther down the road?"

Though the assistant manager posed it as a question it sounded more like a statement with the duel meaning of _you are not welcome here._ I could barely contain the growl that built up in my chest and threatened to escape my throat. I was tired, I was sore. I had five rolls of film to be processed. I just wanted to sleep for a week. I wanted food that wasn't a government ration of any sort, and maybe some whiskey. I wanted to lie in a bathtub until I damn well pleased, wrinkly skin be damned. I wanted to wear clothes that weren't worn during an exchange of live fire or in the jungles of the South Pacific.

"No, I'm not mistaken." The field cap that I'd picked back up from the counter top was gripped so tightly my knuckles were white. "The room should be under my name, which, if you'd have left me finish before, is—"

"Ellie? Ellie Mason, is that you?"

_Can nobody let me finish a goddamn sentence today?_

I still don't know who I expected to see when I turned towards the voice, but I certainly never could have predicted who I saw. Only a few feet away from me stood the familiar face of Ernie Pyle, the GIs reporter. Even in the mood I was, I couldn't stop the smile that spread across the face even if I had wanted to. Finally someone I knew, finally a friendly face in the city of London, and in the middle of war! It seemed incredibly unlikely, but there he was, just like I remembered, thin and all gangly limbs. Before I realized exactly what was happening, I found myself a few inches off the ground in a surprisingly strong bear hug that I returned. When we stepped away from one another I couldn't help but feel relieved to see he was dressed in a somewhat similar state—a British battle dress jacket, OD pants and infantry boots—and stood out just as much.

"It is! Eleanor Mason, you're a sight for sore eyes! What's it been, four or five months now?"

"Yeah, just about," I replied. "They yanked me from some unknown atoll in the middle of the Pacific. I just arrived in England this morning."

"I reckoned that's what happen," Ernie chuckled. "You look a sight, sister. Makes me feel good about myself, I've been here for two days and haven't got used to staring. Actually, I'm getting some of my luggage pulled from storage today in hopes of findin' me a suit though it seems useless since I've already been given my assignment and met the brass."

I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. Everything seemed to moving rather suddenly.

"Already? I knew I was late on arriving but I didn't think I was that behind…"

"I'm sure you're fine," he assured me. "Just check in with—wait is Jack still your handler these days or have you moved on?"

"Still my boss, Pyle." I didn't want to think of Jack, not yet. Not until I had to be face to face with the bastard, if I had to be. "I don't think I could shake him more than a Marine could permanently shake malaria in the jungle."

There's was some sort of commotion behind Ernie's back—someone yelling or hollering or something of the like accompanied with the sound of breaking glass—in the direction where I could only assume he'd come from that brought us back to the present. I figured he'd been with people before he'd seen me and only left his group to say hello (or something along the lines of "glad to see you haven't gotten your head blown off, cheers!") then jaunt off. In comparison to him, I wasn't anybody.

Ernie, who had turned at the sound, rounded back with a bit of a cringe on his face.

"That'll be the call for me to return, there was a rather large stocked bar for the correspondents set up and well, not all of them are exactly ammeters when it comes to the drink."

"It's fine, really." I waved it off easily. I was more than done with the conversation that had run its immediate course. "I still have to figure out all my logistics here. Get back to them before they break something larger—it was nice to see you Pyle, hopefully we run into one another before the Big Show, yeah?"

"Sounds wonderful, Mason. I'll be seeing you."

He gave me a tight squeeze then he was off, darting through the open twin doors opposite me and out of sight within a second. I liked Ernie. I liked his style. I liked the fact that he was dressed in a similar state that I was, that he wore his field clothes even though it made people uncomfortable. He was just one of the many good men I'd been fortunate to meet and fortunate to call a friend. I'd been even luckier to have worked side by side with him in the Sicily drop during Husky. When I prayed, he was one of the names I mentioned to keep safe. Sighing I ran a hand through my knotted hair as I turned back to the front desk where the wormy assistant manger looked like he'd seen a ghost.

"Ma'am, you said you had a reservation with us?" He sounded nervous, and I knew if he'd been able to he would have tugged at his collar for being too tight. "May I have you name?"

  _As if you didn't hear Ernie say it, you eavesdroppin' son of a bitch._

"Eleanor Mason."

There was the sound of (what I can only assume was) the flurry of paperwork as the man attempted to recover from the embarrassing situation he'd put himself into. I enjoyed watching the flush spread up his face and as I leaned onto the counter I couldn't help but feel more at ease despite the eyes that still burnt into my form. There was going to be a bed and a bath and real food in my immediate future.

"It seems like you do have a room here Miss Mason," The assistant manager replied curtly as he reappeared before me, papers in hand. "However, you also have two messages left for you by a Mister Jack Monáe."

"I'll take those first," I answered holding a hand out, waiting. I didn't even thank him when he dropped the folded pieces of onion paper in my hand I simply turned my back to him and began reading, earliest message first timed as being delivered at 10:30AM.

 

 

> _EM,_
> 
> _You should be on time this time. It looks utterly unprofessional when you continuously arrive late, you're fault or not. Before you do anything else after checking in, please phone me. There are two assignments up for grab and it would be easier for all involved if you had the final say to which you would prefer._
> 
> _Also, make sure you clean yourself up. I heard from a little bird you're dressed like an infantry soldier, that's not the image the agency wants to put forth._
> 
> _JM_

I couldn't help but roll my eyes as I crumbled up the useless message. I was obliviously late, terribly unprofessional in a field where I needed to be three times as much considering my gender and I had missed out on picking between whatever assignments I had been offered. While Jack was quiet good at his job—to allow me to keep my accreditation and keep me in good standing with the Allied brass he was a wizard—he didn't exactly pull in the big fish of assignments, which is why I had been stuck in the jungles of the South Pacific instead of North Africa. I would have rather been in the desert with my boys in the Armor.

Sighing I unfolded the second message—delivered at 1:15PM—and began reading.

 

 

> _EM,_
> 
> _You're late. Thank you for not letting me down with that aspect. Don't bother getting settled into your room, you won't be staying at the Savoy for more than the night. You're next assignment will have you living outside the city like many of the other correspondents will be until everything occurs._
> 
> _All the arrangements have been made, all your supplies that you requested be in your room here will be where you're staying in [redacted]. Yes, you read that right, [redacted]. The front desk has been ordered to ring you when your escort arrives in the morning so get some sleep, you'll need it._
> 
> _Congratulations Mason, you're one of the lucky few covering the 101st Airborne._
> 
> _JM_

I didn't even bother crumpling that message; I just shoved into the top breast pocket of my jacket then turned back to the front desk where the assistant manager was patiently waiting, key in hand. I didn't even have to say a word; I'm certain whatever look I was wearing (a cross between fury and sleep deprivation) spoke volumes because the man dropped the key in my hand as if it were on fire. I was already moving away towards the lift when he called out my floor. 

"Third floor, miss—your room number is on the key!"

As I shoved myself into the already crammed lift and ignored the stares of the men and women I could only think two things: the first being was that I was already missing the jungles of the Pacific and my solidly grounded Marines and secondly, I really, really, really loathed the Italian who invented the concept of the airborne infantry.

* * *

Ernie Pyle is indeed a real person, a fantastic war correspondent who wrote some of the potent pieces of field journalism to come out of the war (and my personal hero) so I just had to stick in a bit of his real world situation into the story. Read his book Brave Men and you'll readily see what I'm talking about, consider it an easter egg. Anyway, while I realize women correspondents and combat photographers didn't become wide spread until 1943 (thanks to Bourke-White) I've changed that. In this story, women have been reporting since 1939 (in Europe) and while things are still difficult, it isn't impossible to believe.


	2. II - Optimists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody drinks alone in wartime.

_“Sometimes too much to drink is barely enough.” –Mark Twain_

I couldn’t sleep.

Even with the blackout curtains drawn tightly and myself buried deep into the four-hundred threat count sheets and goose feather pillows—the most comfortable place I’d been in months—I couldn’t drop off. I just couldn’t sleep. I’d never had a problem with sleeping before, not even in the jungles on Guadalcanal or in the deserts of North Africa when I was up to my knees in muck and shit and dead foliage.

The clock on the mantel was ticking. Its sounds reminded me so much of the bombardments on the atoll.

Rolling over I pushed myself deeper into the duvet, a pillow over my head.

I wasn’t just tired, I was exhausted. Dead bone weary; drained; bushed; fatigued. I had stayed in the bath until I had successfully worked out all the knots from my hair and when I finally dragged myself from the bathroom I was as wrinkly as a prune. It’d taken two washes to clean all the mud and dirt off me, the water ending up a weird discolored brown shade.

Disgusting.

I had tried counting sheep—it failed—and, remembering what Gracia had said once in the dead of night on some shitty atoll, I turned my body to “polar” North. It failed as well. I counted down from one hundred. When that wasn’t successful, I began to count each inhale as one, each exhale as two. Nothing worked, leaving me there in the bed laying in the relatively dead silence of the Savoy’s suite.

It was maddening.

The bedding only made the whole thing worse, it was too soft, I felt like I was sleeping on marshmallow. In a fit, I untangled myself from the crisp sheets ( _when did they become so fucking deadly, Jesus Christ_ ) and moved to the bedside chair. Shaky hands reached for and found the cigarettes and Zippo I had kept stuffed in my jacket. The nicotine burnt my throat, singed my lungs as I drew in the first deep breath of the cheaply rolled tobacco. After a moment I blew it out, watched the smoke curl up like a tail on a cat before settling into the chair. It was nearly as comfortable as the bed—something that I never thought was possible, but I supposed all things in the land of the civilized were comfortable beyond belief.

Faintly, onto the edges on my hearing I couldn’t help but notice the voices that floated up into the room—European accents mixed in with Americans and the like—and with every new voice my hands shook more. I couldn’t stand the silence mixed with the muffled sounds. I was just so used the bloody racket of war—the artillery strikes and mortar shells, the gun fire and the Marines’ constant bickering—that the silence of the Savoy unnerved me.

I took a long drawl of the cigarette, shifted my feet this way and that; cracked my knuckles.

In the Pacific, silence meant something was coming. It was an omen, a sign of a coming shit storm. It was the first thing I had learned when I found myself with the Marines, that pure silence—without insects or birds—was unnatural. The best alarm system was nature; that jungles were inherently noisy so if they became quiet, something was there that shouldn’t be, and the birds and the bugs, they knew. It was a rule that had kept me from taking a bullet to the skull, so it was impossible for me to drop them. Every time a passing voice floated into my suite my muscles tensed; when a door slammed I couldn’t help but flinch.

_Who’d have thought I’d miss the jungle? Damn…_

It was by the fifth consecutive door slam that I decided I need a stiff drink. I snuffed out my cigarette quickly, before slipping on my dirty clothes from earlier sans jacket. I didn’t bother tying my boots up, simply stuffed the shoelaces under the tongue and I was off.

The hallway was strikingly brighter than my room had been—no surprise there—caused my eyes to water until I dropped my sunglasses back down onto my face. My boots barely made a sound on the marbled floor as I made my way down stairs, opting for the stairs instead of the lift. It may not have been night, but it was late afternoon and honestly, who knew if the Luftwaffe would try a day raid this late? By the time I reached the lobby, the sun that could leak through the exposed glass had given the lobby a golden hue.

Unlike earlier, I went relatively unnoticed in the sea of OD green and sharp dressed civvies. I chalk it up to the sheer fact that most were far more interested in their date than some shabbily dressed stranger. Of course that isn’t saying I didn’t get my fair share of curious on lookers, but by the time I slid into an open bar stool it didn’t matter. It only took a few seconds for me to get service, proving that the bar was a bit more efficient than the front desk. Then again, every bar everywhere is the same, and every customer the same as well.

Money is money and having enough will guarantee service.

“What can I get you, ma’am?”

“Johnnie Walker on the rocks,” I answered smoothly. “Please.”

The dark worn oak was smooth beneath my hands as I waited a bit impatiently for my drink, my teeth biting in my lips. The noise level was overpowering, the music and the laughing and the over sensory exposure killing me.

I found myself fidgeting; my right leg bouncing up and down in no real rhythm to anything except anxiety. From my trouser pocket I pulled out a squished packet of Lucky Strikes, almost empty save for one. I popped it in my mouth, laid the empty packet on the bar top and my then free hands were hunting for my Zippo. During the search, the bartender delivered my drink—a lovely glass of the amber poison—and I waved him off by opening a tab. I was going to need it.

“Shit,” the words came out a bit muffled as I bite my cigarette between my teeth as the realization hit: I’d left my lighter on the table back in my room.

“Need a light?”

At the words, my head snapped to my right and locked eyes with a rather suave looking Army NCO who was holding out his Zippo. He was leaning up on the counter, a bit careless and with the whole vibe of a rebel that spoke volumes about who he was without using words—he wasn’t a natural in a uniform, not meant for conformity or the authority of the Army, but was still (if I was reading his brass right) a Lieutenant. He was tall too—taller than myself, anyway—with a clean shaven, pale face and a head of dark hair and eyes that just had a boyish twinkle.

 _Trouble,_ my mind spoke instantly, _with a capital T._

“You’re right, I could.” I motioned to my cigarette, “You mind?”

His lips gave a bit of a quirk.

“Wouldn’t have asked if I did,” then the Zippo flicked to life and both of us were leaning just a bit closer together.

He smelt of sandal wood, smoke, and whiskey. No doubt I smelt like weird mixture of soap and mud that I hadn’t successfully removed. As soon as the cigarette was lit, I pulled away as though I’d been zapped, drawling the tobacco in deep and allowing the smoke escape from my nose. Pausing between smoking and speaking, I took a long gulp of my drink—relishing the burn of the alcohol as it went down—without chasing it with anything.

_There’s nothing like whiskey and a cigarette._

“You’re every girl’s hero,” I drawled. I turned my body in my seat as I spoke to him, setting myself to face him a bit more so I wouldn’t have to twisting my neck. With a careless wave of my hand, I easily flag down the bartender shooting my cigarette saviors a pointed look. “What’s your poison, Lieutenant?”

“You don’t have—”

I waved him off, already beginning to feel the tingles from my drink. “I don’t have to, but I’d like to.”

“Well, you won’t hear any arguments from me,” He smirked before turning to the bartender, leaning farther onto the bar top to make sure he was heard over the noise. “I’ll have a glass of Vat 69—put her drink and mine on my own tab. Suite 35.”

At my stunned face, he quickly explained. “My mother would be insulted to hear I let a woman pay for my drink when I could rightfully pay for my own. You know manners and what not.”

“Yeah,” I remarked dryly before throwing back the rest of my drink, “Manners and what not.”

A comfortable silence fell between us then, me smoking my cigarette and he nursing his scotch once it arrived. If I could tell anything—from how the drink didn’t really seem to burn his throat as it went down—I’d say he was a normal drinker of his selected drink. To each their own.

“So, what’s your story?” He queried suddenly, shooting me a look over the rim of his glass.

“My story?” I shot back with a mock scandalized look, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Well that’s easy to remedy.” He proclaimed, setting his glass down and holding his left hand out to me, “2nd Lieutenant Lewis Nixon of the US Army at your service ma’am.”

I didn’t even bother trying to hide my own smirk as I accepted his hand, my cold hand gripping his own tightly. His hands were generally soft, definitely not a hand from a working life, but the palms were rough, slightly calloused.

_Hardened by the Army…_

“Eleanor Mason of no place in particular,” I supplied before releasing his hand in favor of my drink. With my cigarette held in my other hand, I took a long swig from the glass before speaking again. “What makes you think I have a story that’s any interesting? I’d think most people in this room would have one, bit more interesting than mine I’d say.”

He shrugged, the jerky movement sloshing the amber liquid in his glass.

“You’ve got a point there,” he conceded. “But I figure yours is good enough to hear, the only way you could stick out more is if you were wearing a neon sign.”

At his words I pulled a bit nervously at my shirt, and pulled imaginary lint from the fabric. He was right, of course. Everyone surrounding us—the Lieutenant included—was dressed to the nines. The women, despite the war time restrictions and rationings, still managed to look like the department store models. There was nothing drab about their dresses; all the colors were bright, vibrant. My clothes were faded and tattered, dirty and mismatched. Their makeup, from what I could see, made their skin smooth and unblemished. My face was bare, sun burnt from the Pacific sun. Their hairstyles were all intricate curls and ringlets; mine was (still, thankfully) held together in its hastily done French braid, loose and ratty.

 _So what he’s trying to say_ , I thought sullenly snuffing out my cigarette, _is I look like the only refugee._

I didn’t want to draw out our conversation any longer than I had to. Suddenly, despite the insomnia that I had been feeling, I just wanted to crawl into my bed in my suite and sleep the war away. I wanted to slink out of the sight of everyone in the _American_ , and I wanted to do so without anyone noticing.

“I’m a photographer,” I acknowledged slowly while waving for another drink. “Just arrived for a job, didn’t get a chance to make myself presentable before I needed a drink.”

Accepting the drink from the bartender I tacked on—“Not that interesting.”

At my words, the Lieutenant placed his empty glass—when did that happen?—down on the bar top, and moved in a bit closer. Not close enough to make me uncomfortable, but just enough to where it was intimate, making us look more familiar than we were; the typical posturing of someone who wanted information, especially from a woman.

“Now,” He was so close I could smell his breath, a mix of mint and scotch. “I have a hard time believing that. Hypothetically speaking, what if I said you’re lying?”

_A game of cat and mouse then, I can do that._

“Hypothetically?” I mused as I relaxed heavily on the bar, my new drink held limply in my right hand. The stupid boyish twinkle seemed even bright up close, and I found myself turning my body towards him. “I’d say that I’m a war correspondent here for a new assignment. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

He smirked.

“Of course, Miss Mason.”

“And,” I continued. “Hypothetically speaking, I could say I just arrived from the Pacific.”

His smirk was a full-blown Cheshire cat grin. “Long ride?”

“That’d be an understatement,” I replied before taking a drink. “But all hypothetical. You?”

“Me? Hypothetically speaking?” He pointed to himself, his hand bringing attention to his jump wings that I’d miss when he’d approached me. Paratrooper. “Well, I don’t believe I’m at liberty to go around discussing hypotheticals with a civilian.”

Whatever smile I’d been wearing on my face, the first one that wasn’t ended by sporadic gunfire, dropped off my face immediately. I’d been played. I’d been had. I was so fucking stupid. I had played the game of cat and mouse, unaware which of us was which, and had been caught. I had most definitely turned out to be the mouse, and by God if wasn’t going to stay that way.

“Sounds like the usual military chicken shit to me,” I answered indifferently. “But I’m going to go out on the limb and say you somehow knew a guy who owed you, so you got a pass off whatever backwater English village they’ve got you hidden in.”

“I’m a city boy,” He laughed lightly, taking a swig of his drink. “London’s as close as I’ll get to a taste of home.”

“You’re willing to risk getting blown to shit if the Luftwaffe decides to run a raid for a bit of scotch?”

“And good company,” the Lieutenant chortled. “But you sure do seem to be the pessimist, so maybe I picked the wrong person.”

“Hey, I can’t really be the optimist in war time. It’d be like lying to myself.”

He gave a light _hmmmm_ in the back of his throat at my answer, like he was really considering what I said and not just waiting for another glass. The bartender was fast though, so the Lieutenant (Lewis, I had to remind myself) had a full glass within a few blinks, as did I. Definitely was looking like someone was getting a hefty tip.

“I think with enough alcohol though,” I admitted slowly, “I could be an optimist.”

“Fortunately for you, Miss Mason, London isn’t exactly a dry city.”

With those words, my glass met Lewis’ in a weak form of a toast, and I threw back the whisky.

Maybe I’d get to sleep after all.

\---**---

“Were you really on Guadalcanal?”

The question cut through the noises of mid-morning London with the precision of a knife, but it still wasn’t able to surprise me. We correspondents had been directed to wait outside the Savoy, all nine of us on the curb like luggage (which is really what we were, the tagalongs to the carnage that was to come), for the last forty-five minutes, and the waif of a girl had been burning holes into the side of my pounding head the whole time. She was a WAC, and I could only tell from how she was dressed in her official trimmings. Her uniform was sharp like regulation required, there wasn’t a hair out of place while her face was demurely painted with rationed supplies.

It’d felt like years since I’d worn lipstick.

“And who says that?” I acknowledged, looking over the edge of my sunglasses at her.

It was too early in the morning for pleasantries, I was being rude, and the worst part about it was that I knew it. The Russian-sized headache I had pounding in my forehead, coupled with the discomfort of the London weather, well it was all just enough to leave me in a sour disposition. Guadalcanal wasn’t a place I enjoyed dwelling on often, even less so when hung over.

Luckily, I’d woken alone in my room’s bathtub fully dressed to Savoy staff pounding on the door; Jack’s idea as a fucking joke knowing that I’d be burned out. With every blaring horn, my skull felt like it was going to burst into a million little pieces. Behind my sunglasses my eyes felt swollen, and I knew without even needing to look they were probably as red as the sun on a Jap flag.

There was no good time to dig up old ghosts with a stranger.

“Everyone,” she pointed out. I didn’t miss her oh-so-subtle glance to the correspondents to the left of us. Despite feeling like I’d been hit with a rifle stock, I wasn’t completely oblivious. “All the other correspondents—you know, the green horns, they’re chattin’ like magpies. Apparently you were all Mister Pyle could talk about at the cocktail yesterday.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” I advise, snaking a cigarette from my overcoat pocket. “Pyle and the like tend to, ah, embellish. They’re writers, you know, it’s what they do.”

She didn’t reply, so with the smoke tucked between my thin, cracked lips I began fishing for my lighter. Not in the breast pockets, not in the side pocket. I could barely contain the deep sigh building in my throat as I struggled to lift myself to check my trouser pockets when the WAC’s got her Zippo out, lighting my smoke.

“Oh thank God,” I blurted out before taking a deep breath of the nicotine, exhaling slowly with practiced ease. “That’s good.”

There’s silence between us, at least for a while, as we both stay on the Savoy curb waiting for transport that still hadn’t arrived; almost an hour late. I always thought the military ran like a well-oiled machine prior to the war, but experience has proven otherwise. If anything, it ran like a broken down mule, one that should have keeled over years ago but somehow keeps on moving, keeps going forwards.

“What’s your name?”

“Private Peggy Dixon,” she absolutely beams, “of the Women’s Army Corps, ma’ma.”

_At least I have a name now._

“I’d be right in guessing you know where all of us are going, Private Dixon?” I question, motioning to the clipboard under her arm. When she nods, I can’t help but grin. “Right then, where am I eventually going to end up?”

She seemed to hesitate, her knuckles gripping the clipboard tightly but I can’t really understand her position. If I’m going to end up there eventually, what’s the harm letting me know now? Sometimes the Army bullshit makes no sense to me, so I know it can’t possibly make any to those who have to follow the rules. When she seems to look at the clipboard for too long without answering, leaning towards definitely not giving me my destination, I make a split second decision.

“Come on,” I nearly beg. “You tell me, I’ll answer whatever you want about Guadal on the truck ride.”

Intel for intel: neat, and hopefully in the end, nearly painless.

“Aldbourne,” Private Dixon declares. “You’re being sent to Aldbourne, England, ma’ma.”


	3. III - Countryside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Littlecote House is the place where the 506th Regimental HQ and officers were at while the 101st was stationed at Aldbourne.

_“I followed the war wherever I could reach it.” –_ Martha Gellhorn

I don’t tell Sgt. Peggy Dixon of Shreveport, Louisiana what she really wants to hear; the things that haunt, and hurt at all hours of the day are kept down deep, undisturbed but still lumbering like great giant beasts that threaten to swallow me whole at any given moment. Everyone who’s never been in the field always wants to be a voyeur of violence without getting messy. Nobody has to worry about stepping back from the blood because they’re never close enough for it to touch them. I won’t ever give anyone the satisfaction.

Instead, I tell the jokes, of the moments before and after the mortars have fallen, and the guns have gone silent. I tell my truths, as I know them. The classic story about the two Marines drivers on Guadalcanal, supposedly a true story— _very true_ , Hoosier had sworn—where someone listening almost always knew someone who knew the drivers.

“And the two jeeps,” I explained while being rattled around in the back of the canvas truck. “They’re passing in the night somewhere on Guadalcanal, one’s got the proper air raid dimmers, and the other’s without.”

_I’m pretty sure this never, ever happened._

“And the lights are just glaring, so bright that Japs could spot’em from Tokyo. So the driver of the dimmed jeep, he can’t let that pass, you know?”

Sgt. Dixon nodded, enrapt. “Obviously.”

“So, he leans out the side and yells, _Hey put your fucking lights out!_ ” I’m gesturing wildly by then, really trying to sell the story. “But the other driver doesn’t, the Marine, he doesn’t even blink, just shouts back _I can’t, I’ve got a fucking Colonel with me!_ ”

And then the Sergeant is laughing, and even though I’ve been told and told the story myself a hundred times over, I find myself laughing too. My cheeks hurt by the time I stop, and my lungs got a bit of a burn, like when you’re running in winter.

“I haven’t laughed like that in awhile,” I admitted, leaning back. “That story never gets old.”

“I know what you mean,” Sgt. Dixon agreed before pausing, then—“What was it really like though? Over there?”

Any feeling of warmth immediately dies; they drop like lead in my stomach, and my throat constricts. Everyone always, always wants to know the carnage. I can’t help it when I sigh, taking out another cigarette (leaving only three left) to chew on. I fidget with my zippo, the cool metal and its engraving pressing into my skin.

_I’ll need a new pack by the time I finally reach the village if I keep getting debriefed._

“Hot,” I decide. “Miserable too, but mostly boredom highlighted with death and gunfire.”

My tone is one of finality, the subject is closed, and thankfully she understands it because she suddenly becomes incredibly interested in her clipboard, not that there was much for her to do. I was the last on the list. There had been three others, not counting myself, and they were all so green. They had never seen combat, never been in such a situation—Hell, I’m pretty sure two of them hadn’t even begun to shave.

As I looked out the open end of the truck, watching the lush English countryside roll by, I absentmindedly light my cigarette before sliding my Zippo into my breast pocket. I was the last of the correspondents on the truck, the last gift out for delivery via the US military.

The other correspondents had made no effort to speak to me, and based off what Dixon had said, they knew who I was. They knew where I’d been—North Africa, Guadalcanal, and Husky—and unlike the WAC Sergeant, smart enough to leave me well alone. They’d been tasked to cover various arms of the service; one was Navy (he’d bragged loud enough for the Kriegsmarine trolling the Atlantic to hear), the other the Rangers, and the last had spoken relatively softly of the infantry of the 3rd Army. They had all sounded so optimistic, and excited.

I knew their enthusiasm would fade quickly enough; they’d receive their violent education.

Abruptly, I’m thrown from the bench sideways. I reacted like I was back in the jungle; out of reaction I grab my musette bag, holding it close to my chest. I barely caught myself in time to save from smashing my head open, sacrificing my cigarette to the truck floor. When the truck came to a complete stop, I could feel my heart in my throat and my temples pounding.

“What the hell was that?!”

“Sorry! There’s another accident up ahead, Sergeant.” The reply was muffled, coming from the front cab. “Looks like it’ll be awhile.”

Across from me, the now disheveled Sgt Dixon huffed, straightening her jacket and smoothing back her hair.

“This is the third one this week,” she commented as she hunched over to stand. “It makes me wonder if anyone bothers to learn how to drive anymore.”

_Ain’t that the truth._

“So, what does this mean for me? Aren’t we on a schedule?”

Sgt. Dixon shrugged. “You’re going to be a wee late, I’m afraid.”

She didn’t sound very sorry though, so when she began to climb out the back of the truck, I followed. Thankfully my headache had lessened by then, so the bright sun on the English countryside didn’t really take me by surprise (though I had a feeling my sunglasses helped me out). Walking around to the front of the front, I could see exactly what the WAC Private driving had mean by saying we’d be stuck for awhile.

There were at least five or so jeeps and military vehicles in front of us, a long with some mess of tangled jeeps in front of that. Two R.A.F. ambulances were on each side of the road, and countless personnel were milling around with notebooks and camera, documenting the accident for the military red tape.

_That’s the US military, so goddamn thorough._

Turning on my heel back towards the two chatting WACs, I could see the back up starting to form behind our transport. It wasn’t too hard to make my decision.

"How far are we from Aldbourne, from the Littlecote House?” I questioned, grabbing to two women’s attention.

The driver, the Private, gave a gentle shrug from where she leaned out the window. “About twenty-minutes or so North of here, just down the way.”

Sgt. Dixon lifted an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Well,” I drawl, adjusting my musette bag, “I can walk there, right? That’s not far.”

At my words, the two women looked at me like I’d grown a second head—not a reaction that I’m unused to—and almost immediately Sergeant Dixon blew up. The Private, on the other hand, could only sputter from her window.

“You just can’t do that!” She commanded. “The village is over three miles away, and that time is for driving. You just can’t wander off on your own because you’re a bit impatient.”

I rolled my eyes, and any socially acceptable part of my manners, and personality, seemed to evaporate into smoke.

“I’m pretty certain I can, actually.” I snapped, adjusting my bag. “Sorry that I’m not someone who wants to be late for a meeting with the commanding officer of an entire goddamn regiment.”

"But you can’t—”

“Yea, I can. I ain’t military.” I don’t bother to hold back my sneer, as my natural accent leaked in. “If anyone asks, just tell’em I ditched you.”

With that, I turned and began stalking off. I didn’t bother saying anything else to the two WACs, even when I heard them kicking up a fuss. They gave up quick enough once I’d put two jeeps between us, and I knew they’d mark me down that I’d been safely delivered, all good and proper. It wasn’t as if I could get that lost, especially if the village was right down the way, however far it may be. Even if I did, I’d risk getting lost on my own, with no threat of running into the enemy, and try to be on time to meet the unknown Colonel Sink than be late.

I weaved my way around the jeeps and personnel stuck on the road, my feet sinking into the lush grass and weeds, but I was used to the feeling of walking in mud. I doubted the English countryside had seen traffic such as this. At least, before the war, or even before we Americans got involved. The roads just weren’t built for it, they were so narrow, definitely only constructed with the idea of light, if any, automobile traffic to be passing through. It certainly wasn’t fit for the constant convoys passing through, and as I slunk by the gnarly wreckage (and the blood spattering asphalt) I could definitely understand how there’d been three accidents in the last week.

Once I got through the backup of jeeps and the like, time and distance passed quickly.

The first time I had marched in the pure military sense had been in North Africa; I’d been partnered with Pyle on pure accident and who’d been reporting since ’42. My feet weren’t right for a month. My boots, fresh Government Issue with shiny new leather, had rubbed my feet raw, and they swelled to the size of twin small boats. My bones had ached for the next month and a half it seemed, and Ernie never let me forget it. The men, they’d been just as bad, always cracking jokes. The name Achy Ellie had struck with me for weeks! I still get letters addressing me as such (though they’re far and few now), but I consider it a badge of honor—not that I’d tell any of those surviving bastards that.

The infantry broke me, and then rebuilt me. When they sent me off to the Marines, I was experienced and calloused. There wasn’t anything soft about me left.

_Hell knows it’s a lot nicer marching in the English countryside than some island._

There were no Japs, no Krauts, and no Eyeties out in the wilds trying to gut you in your sleep, or trying to put a bullet in you. I also didn’t smell, which honestly at that point in the war was a godsend. Only the passing of military jeeps and trucks broke up the peace of the countryside, but they weren’t too hard to ignore as I made my way. The back of my neck under my hair was sticky with sweat, and while it wasn’t as bad as what I’d experienced just a few days ago, it was still uncomfortable. There was a quick remedy of course, and that was simply twisting my hair up, and tucking it under my Field Cap. I already needed to brush it—maybe just chop off a few inches altogether—so knotting it up more wouldn’t matter. After another five minutes, I had shed my BD jacket, resigning myself to carrying it, leaving me in just my Marine field issues.

“Hey, Jarhead!”

_The peace and quiet couldn’t last forever, could it?_

“Aren’t you a bit lost or haven’t you heard? Japan’s the other way!”

Despite there being a war, the armed forces continued the stupid tradition of shit talking each other, pulling rank and kicking the hornet’s nest whenever possible. I, of course, had to be dressed as an opposing force of the Army: anything relating to the Navy was open game. I didn’t consider responding even when the jeep made a wild U-turn. I just kept moving on as I pulled my cap down lower, my grip on my jacket tighter.

“Hey buddy, didn’t you hear us? You need a ride somewhere?”

I stopped walking then, the jeep having stopped just a bit behind me, and looked towards the sky. I hadn’t looked at it all at since arriving back, and it wasn’t anything like I had remembered England to be. The skies were clear now, the blue almost the same color as the waters of the South Pacific I’d just left, and no Germans. In ‘40, the skies had been a constant source of terror and destruction, resulting in some of the most beautiful sights I’d seen: Britain ringed and stabbed with fire.

I’d seen enough nature for the day.

“That’d be swell,” I answered, turning towards them. “You passing by Littlecote?”

Getting a good look at them, I could quickly tell they were Army paratroopers just by their M42 jacket, bloused trousers with matching garrison caps they wore, looking sharp as regulation required. The passenger, the one who I assumed had spoken, was up out of the seat, leaning up over the windshield. He was all olive skin and dark features, with a Romanesque nose that reminded me of the statues I’d seen half blown to bits in Italy. Definitely Italian, I decided and if he’d been standing up, probably was five-foot nothing. The driver was lounging all too comfortably behind the wheel of the jeep with a small smirk and, unlike his friend, was a bit on the pale side. He was larger, and more overwhelming in general, with a head of brown hair, and a jaw line that could cut. He looked like a poster boy for Uncle Sam’s recruitment, sitting there all in trimmings, smoking a cigarette.

“Oh shit,” the passenger blurted out, before turning to the driver. “She’s a dame, Bill, that ain’t a Marine.”

“Really, Frank? I hadn’t noticed.” The man, Bill, replied sardonically before looking at me, “Lady, what’d you doing walkin’ all the way out here dressed like that?”

“Places to see, people to meet,” I offered, staying purposely evasive. “That ride still available though? I really gotta get to Littlecote.”

There was a moment of a silence between the two troopers as they turned to one another, giving each other what I’d dubbed _The Look_ , as I’d come to call it. An entire conversation could go on within seconds, so well in tune with the men they serve with words weren’t needed. If you blinked, you’d miss it. I’d seen it many times in the platoons I’d been stuck with for a while in the field. Having soldiers so known to one another saved lives.

“Ah hell, why not?” the diver relented, waving me into the back. “Hop in.”

“I owe you guys,” I said climbing into the back of the jeep. “I’m Mason, Ellie Mason.”

“Aw, listen to that Bill, she already knows we’re paratroopers,” the passenger complained before twisting in his seat to look at me. “Name’s Frank Perconte, Technician Third Grade and this great big lug of Philly driving here is Sergeant Bill Guarnere. Say hi, Bill.”

Bill just rolled his eyes and I couldn’t help but bit back a laugh as I placed a cigarette between my lips. I had the feeling most of their exchanges were a bit more heated than what I was seeing. Shaking my head, I snapped open my Zippo lighting my smoke before snapping it back closed, returning it to my pant pocket.

“I expect you to share,” I said tossing the half-smoked packet of cigarettes into Frank’s lap. “Consider it payment for picking me up.”

“Free smokes, no Sobel.” Frank gave a long whistle. “See Bill, told you today was a gonna be good.”

**. . .**

“Speaking frankly Miss Mason,” Colonel Sink began as he sat down behind his desk. “You aren’t exactly what I’d been expecting.”

The troopers and I had reached Littlecote House in less than ten minutes with Bill’s driving skills, though I honestly couldn’t understand how we’d arrived alive at all. He drove like a madman, and the worst part is he knew it. When the guards had waved us through, I hadn’t even waited for the jeep to come to a complete stop before jumping. With my bag in hand I just hopped over the side, my knees, taking the brunt of the shock from my landing. I didn’t wait for the pain to subside either before taking off in a jog to the doors, wheezing like some out of shape desk clerk as I told some Staff Sergeant who I was.

Which brought me to be standing in the House library—Colonel Sink’s office—with said Colonel sitting behind his desk looking expectedly at me. He was just a little over than middle aged, with salt and pepper hair and a mustache had could revival most in magazines. He reminded me a bit of Chesty, but without the bloodthirsty edge.

“I get that a lot sir,” I said, offering him a sad excuse of a smile. “But honestly, I’ve seen more action than the majority of your command have. I’m not some greenhorn who hasn’t got their feet wet, I know how to handle myself when the bullets start to fly.”

“Damn straight,” Colonel Sink began, “And that’s the only reason I agreed to see you, and not send you packing right away young lady.”     

_God, it feels like my father is lecturing me._

“General Jim Gavin of the 82nd gave you one hell of a recommendation for your work during Husky,” He stated, pushing two letters at me. “Lt. Col. Puller of the Marine Corps too, couldn’t say enough good words about you during that shit storm Guadalcanal, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

I shrugged, grabbing the letters to glance them over. “Nothing to pardon, sir. It is what it is.”

“Puller says you’re a killer, one of the best.”

“Chesty often over exaggerates, on a good day I’m alright,” I said honestly, putting the letters down. “On a good day I’m alright.”

“You were shot.”

His words come out more a statement than a question, so I nod. I didn’t like to think about it because wherever I would, my shoulder would burn. I’d been out of commission for near a month, and half of that was still in the middle of a war, without any relief. The Corpsmen just wrapped me up tight and told me to pray. My right shoulder hadn’t been the same since.

“Sir, do I have a post here or should I prep myself for the Pacific sun?”

_Maybe that’d be for the best, back with my Marines and not jumping from perfectly good plane—_

Behind me, the library door opened and then Colonel Sink was standing from his seat forcing me to door the same. Within seconds a man, a Lieutenant if going by his bars, was beside me and Sink was around his desk, giving him a firm handshake.

“Ah, Thomas glad you could join us,” Sink greeted before stepping back to look at the pair of us. “Eleanor, this is First Lieutenant Thomas Meehan, commander of Easy Company, 2nd Battalion. Lieutenant, this is Eleanor Mason, the correspondent I told you to expect.

“You’ll be spending the majority of your time with Easy, Eleanor. If you ask me, they’re the best damn company in the entire Airborne and, from what General Gavin wrote, you’re the best at what you do. Perfect pair. Lieutenant Meehan, do you have any questions?”

The Lieutenant nodded, then turned towards me. “You’re qualified to jump?”

Lieutenant Meehan seemed to be a soft-spoken man, one who didn’t need to raise his voice to get respect. He was tall, built with broad shoulders, dark features, a strong jaw, and a straight nose. He cut and impressive figure in his M42 jumpsuit. He just seemed like a man who could inspire, and lead, an ideal officer.

“Yes sir,” I nodded. “Qualified with the 82nd before covering Husky in Sicily.”

He gave a gentle smile, then turned back to Colonel Sink.

“When will we inform the men?”

“Tomorrow at twelve hundred hours, have the men in formation,” Colonel Sink answered. “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“Sir, ma’am.”

Meehan saluted, then was gone, leaving only the Colonel and myself in the library. Sink, who’d been leaving back against the front of his desk, stood and returned to his seat, leaving me standing. He quickly returned the letters from Gavin and Chesty to a file—my own, I suspected—before returning his attention to me.

“You’ll need to get presentable for tomorrow, Miss Mason, none of this Marine Field Issue. You’re back in the Army now. Sergeant Evans, the man who saw you in, will take you to where you’ll be staying until further notice.”

I smirked. “You mean until the Big Show?”

“That,” the Colonel gave me a pointed look, “I can neither confirm or deny.”


	4. IV - Sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War makes damaged things out of those who view it.

_“Even Achilles was only as strong as his heel.”_ – **House of Cards (2014)**

Once Colonel Sink dismissed me, I was escorted by a rather squirrely Sergeant Evans to where I’d be staying at until the Big Show. It was a beautiful home, off set on the outer part of Aldbourne, made of brick, covered in thick ivy I didn’t know the name of with a small garden I saw from when I’d knock on the door. It was cute and quaint, what I’d come to expect from the British. I’d come to find out the home belonged to a Mrs. Lydia Hartigan, a waif of a woman with skin that reminded me of Snow White, with rich blond hair and brown eyes. The Germans had taken her husband prisoner during Dunkirk while her son was newly enlisted in the R.A.F., and her daughter was a nurse.

All alone she was glad for the company, and incredibly sweet.

“Your things were delivered late yesterday,” Lydia commented as she led me up the stairs, “I had those boys put everything in Sarah’s room, I thought that would be more appropriate than George’s.”

“That’s fine.”—I wasn’t picky—“Just, thank you again for taking me in Mrs. Hartigan, I know you didn’t have too.”

“Think nothing of it,” She waved me off while pushing open a bedroom door. “I’m simply glad they’ll be someone else here, if it’s only for a while. Now, the bathroom is down the hall just here…”

The bedroom was a pale shade of iliac, the curtains of yellowing lace with the wartime blackout curtains covered the open window, and with the same dark worn wooden floors that ran in the rest of the house. Even if Lydia hadn’t told me the bedroom belonged to her daughter, it would have been easy to guess. The furniture was all whitewashed, the walls covered in a mismatch of framed photographs, a bedside table with a lamp, and a vanity that looked like she’d back any moment, make up and hair brush set out on a mirror tray.

It was so homely it made my chest ache.

“I didn’t know if you need a nightgown, but I put one of Sarah’s out on the bed for you.”—I did, I was pretty sure there wasn’t one in my luggage—“And I know it’s only 3:30 but I’ll start dinner soon, I’ll cook something special.”

I shook my head, turning to her. “Please, don’t do anything special on the account of me, I think I’d just like to rest, is that alright?”

Her face softened. “Of course, dear. Just remember, breakfast will be around 8am.”

And then she slipped from the room, shutting the door softly behind her, leaving me alone. I tossed my mussette bag onto the bed, then flopped down myself, sprawling face down in the bedding. I must have laid there for a good ten minutes, sinking to the peace and quiet and soft mattress, before I felt the need to move again. Forcing myself up, I began the process of removing my grime-covered boots. Once they were off, I put them flush against the bed but still well within reach.

Field habits never die.

I hadn’t even fallen back onto the bed when the shouts floated up through the open window, effectively breaking the peace and quiet I’d been bubbled in. Frowning, I pushed myself off the bed, hissing at the chill that snaked up my spine when my feet hit the floor as I made my way towards the window. Pushing back the curtains, I leaned out the window, my weight on my elbows as I slouched to get a good look. Since the house was on the edge of the village, the view was fantastic: rolling pastures and English woods.

“Aw, come Skip, you gotta catch the ball for us to have a chance!”

“Yeah, yeah Don, but I don’t see you catching anything…”

Unsurprisingly, in the field next door, a handful of troopers—maybe ten at the most—were trying to play some sort of game of football. From the sound of it though, it didn’t seem to be turning out how they would have hoped. I couldn’t help but wonder, were the two I met earlier, Frank and Bill, down there too?

I stayed at the window, watching their terribly played game for a few more minutes, enjoying the light breeze and lack of bullets being shot. It was nice. Then, as if they sensed someone watching them (which they probably did, that’s a skill the Army’s supposed to instill), one trooper turned, spotting me. The others quickly followed suit like a line of dominos, turning around beginning to wave. My face burned red at being caught, and I could feel the flush spread down my neck as I pushed myself back into the room. I gave a small awkward wave before pressing the widow down, leaving it open just a crack, then closing the curtains.

_Way to go, Mason._

Turning from the window, I stripped out of my Field Issues quick enough, leaving me in my off-white undershirt while trousers and over-shirt were in a pile on the floor. I all but sunk into the vanity chair, my fingers quickly beginning the task of untangling my knotted hair.

“Ah, Jesus Christ,” I lasted about two more minutes using my fingers, trying to be patient. After ripping out a small chunk, I gave up, grabbing the hairbrush, cursing Colonel Sink. “‘Look presentable,’ the Colonel says, ‘this isn’t the Marine Corps, it’s the goddamn Airborne!’”

The brush had taken the brunt of the punishment, with what looked like half my hair on the brush instead of my hair, and my hair only looked half way descent. If I were honest, I probably should have chopped it all off and just been done with it, but it was my hair, the last connection to my pre-war life. Setting the brush down back on its small little mirrored tray, there was nothing else to do but sleep. Digging through the luggage could wait. I was still bone tired; it wasn’t hard for me to all but stumble out of the chair and into the bed, sliding under the sheets. I didn’t bother with the nightgown Lydia had left me, it fell to the floor forgotten as I just curled up as small as possible and passed out.

**...**

“Christ, Sarge, when’re they gonna stop?!”

“I don’t know, Stevens. Why don’t you fuckin’ stand up and ask!”

I’d been stuck in the same foxhole for nearing an hour, pushed into the mud with Corporal Alex A. Stevens, and a Sergeant Kevin B. Witt, and we were all on edge. The Japs hadn’t let us sleep all night, their nightly gifts from their 75mm starting off sporadically and lasting or random lengths of time; in the beginning they ended as soon as they began, but as the night wore on, they became longer. The ground kept moving like we were sitting through an earthquake. With every strike, our bones rattled under our skin. All three of us praying a shell wouldn’t hit us, but at the same time that it wouldn’t hit anyone else either.

And then, suddenly, the shelling stopped.

“You should panic more often, Alex.” I suggested, leaning back against the foxhole wall. “They musta heard you all the way in Tokyo.”

All I received in return was a rough punch to my thigh from the Marine.

I couldn’t help but snicker; he took it all so personality. Beside me, Witt was shaking the dirt off that’d been thrown on us from the shelling like a wet dog did water. Around us, men were yelling for check-in to see who was alive, and who’d been hit. The cries for Corpsman were heard too.

“Haven’t I taught you anythin’ Stevens? Don’t be hittin’ the lady,” Sargent Witt chided. “She’ll fuckin’ shoot’ya in the ass.”

“Oh you like it in—”

" _Nips in the wire! Nips in the wire!”_

I woke up swinging.

My arm swiped the pillows off the bed, the momentum of the muscle memory sending me half onto the floor. In the morning light of the room, I could see my legs still tightly wrapped in the sheets, leaving me half sprawled. Fight or flight. I couldn’t breathe; I felt like my throat had been slit— _Christ, like Alex_ —and like a fish out of water I was taking deep breaths but not getting enough. My right shoulder burned, steady but dulled, the puckered scarred skin tingling just under the surface like an itch I couldn’t scratch. Phantom pain. My heart pounded in my chest, though it felt like it was in my throat, as I fought to regain some symbolic of normalcy.

It was _so_ hard.

_You’re awake._

_You’re awake._

The thing about war that none of the books and films have never seemed to get right is the pure primal terror that you carry with you long after the you’ve left the field. I wasn’t even a soldier myself and found myself haunted, carrying a weight of things no one should ever see. It was no wonder why Hemingway and the rest of the more haggard correspondents drank their weight in liquor. The thing nobody tells you, that my own father hadn’t told me—at least in words—is that everything had comes after is nothing more than a footnote.

Five minutes passed before I managed to get myself under control before blindly grabbing for the clock on the nightstand. It took a few random grabs before my hand hit my goal, but according to the cheap Bakelite clock, it was just edging past 7:30.

“Ugh,” I groaned tossing the clock onto the bed.

It was too early and too late, I just wanted to stay wrapped up in the clean sheets not doing anything. I knew I couldn’t though, so I kicked my legs free of the sheets and pushed myself up from the floor, grabbing my Field Issue pants from the day before. I’d go through my luggage after breakfast, I promised myself, slipping out of the bedroom and making my way to the bathroom. I didn’t so much try to sneak as remain completely quiet as I tiptoed on the wooden floor—I wasn’t sure if my little episode had disturbed Lydia or not. The bathroom, like much of the rest of the house, was quaint and scrubbed clean.

Anything clean was considered a miracle after being in the field.

It took ten minutes to strip myself of my nighttime terror, but soon enough I made my way downstairs for breakfast. When I made it to the kitchen I was nearly assaulted by the smell of food; scrambled eggs, baked bread, and the gag inducing scent of Spam that Lydia was working on at the stovetop.

“Good morning Eleanor, I hope you slept well?”

 _I’m not as quiet as I thought I was_.

“Well,” I lied taking a seat at the table. “How about yourself?”

“The same since Howard left for basic,” she replied airily, bringing our plates to the table and handing one off to me before sitting herself. “So not that well, even less now since George and Sarah have left, but we all have to carry on.”

I just _hmm’d_ quietly at her words before digging into my plate. The eggs—real goddamn eggs, not that powder imitation bullshit the military rations were made of—were the best I’d had in years.

“Where’d you get your hands on real eggs, Lydia? These are amazing.”

“I may have two hens out back, they help out with the rationing along with the garden.”

Nodding instead of answering, I chose to devour the eggs and instead of taking nibbles from the toast, I was taking out entire chunks. Compared to Lydia, I was the animal she had invited up to the table for a meal. I attempted to swallow before speaking, a large bit of toast catching in my throat washed down with water.

“You really didn’t have to make this much food. I would have been fine with some toast.”

Lyida shrugged. “I thought it was appropriate. A homemade meal couldn’t hurt, you’re so thin.”

There was no reason trying to say otherwise, that she wasn’t right because the obvious truth was that she was spot on. Eating properly in the field wasn’t a priority, simply eating was. The only thing I knew was that once the war finally was over, I’d never ever want to see another military ration in my entire life.

“Do you have any specific plans for today? I have to go to the market, so I could show you around the village.”

I shook my head. “I’m meeting the company I’ll be with at noon. After that, probably just reorganizing my luggage, and roll some new film. I’d like to get all my ducks in a row before the Big Show, but maybe tomorrow?”

“Oh, well maybe another time then,” Lydia sounded genuinely offset. “It sounds exciting though, meeting the new boys you’ll be with, yes?”

“Somewhat.” I answered, dropping my fork onto my empty plate. “To be honest, it’s always hard to leave the last group behind.”

“But they keep in touch, don’t they?”

‘ _The ones who stay alive, and mostly intact, do_.’ I wanted to say, but I knew that wasn’t the Party line of SHAEF. Instead, I fall back on the safest answer by just shrugging.

“Some do, some don’t. Some don’t contact me until they’re home, and then they send pictures.”

“It must be hard then when you leave them.”

“I guess.”—It was—“I don’t miss the jungle or the desert though.”

By that time, both of us had finished our breakfast and our plates were empty, though mine looked as if I had licked it clean. As Lydia made a move to grab my plate, I pulled it out of her reach, clucking my tongue as I stood.

“No, no. You made the meal and in my house I was taught that the chef never cleans.”

I made a grab for her plate as she stuttered. While those had been the rules in my house, I knew the muscle memory activity would calm me down, sooth me in a way. I was putting the dishes in the sink by the time she managed to string together a sentence.

“But you’re a guest, it wouldn’t be proper.”

“Do I seem very proper to you?” I remarked, grabbing a soapy rag and beginning to clean. “My bothers and I always did the dishes at home after my mother cooked a meal.”

It was the little things, I had found, that kept a person sane. The little bit of home that you could carry with you wherever you went, and as I washed the plates I almost felt like I was home. The only things missing were the ever-lingering smell of pasta in the kitchen, the scratchy sound of my father’s records and my brothers arguing floating around the house.

_Would I ever stand in that kitchen again?_

Lydia had left for the market by the time I finished the dishes, plates, utensils and glasses included. Quickly I dried my hands on a dishtowel left on the countertop then, after checking the time on the grandfather clock in the hallway, made my way upstairs to get ready for the day.

The grandfather clock rang nine times.

**...**

My shower was quick, and nothing like I had experienced in the hour-long excursion at the Savoy. Once out, I set about getting ready for the day with Colonel Sink’s words in mind: “This is the Airborne, young lady, I expect your attire to reflect that.” And as he said, it wasn’t the Marine Corps, or the deserts of North Africa without running water, or jumping from foxholes for weeks on end. That meant saying goodbye to my Field Issues, and saying hello again to the near WAC identical Army regulation dress that had been given to female correspondents. I had only worn it once, but the Airborne in England had an image that was cultivated and immaculate, all shiny jump wings and bloused trousers.

It didn’t take long to dig what I needed out of the luggage at the end of the bed—undergarments, skirt, blouse, jacket, heels, stockings, and precious cosmetics—all in a state of slight wrinkle but nothing that would be too noticeable. Dressing was mechanical; undergarments first with me spending a few minutes on the garter belt—something I hadn’t had to wear in nearly a year—before delicately pulling up the nylons.

Even though they fit looser than before, it felt like the layers were strangling me.

Ignoring the oddness of the fit, the skirt came second and left me struggling with the caught zipper. Two or three minutes passed before I could turn it around properly—the zipper going to be the back—and catching my reflection in the mirror of the vanity. I’d been avoiding the view for a while as it had been becoming worse each time I found a reflective surface. I managed to dodge looking in London, I’d been too tired and too out of sorts, but there was no real excuse as I dressed in the bedroom of someone’s wayward daughter.

What I saw was rather shocking: My skin was a patchwork of different shades and hues thanks to the Pacific sun: my face to clavicle a rich olive shade, my forearms and waist pale and peach while my hands were crisscrossed in thin spider webs from the gauze wraps. The skirt that was meant to be high waisted in its fit, found itself sitting lowly on my hips. I knew if I looked hard enough, and long enough, I’d be able to count my ribs. My hair with its split ends abounding had nearly doubled in length, falling somewhere past my shoulder blades despite having chopping it before Cape Gloucester. And my face was so thin, any baby fat that I had left was gone, making my cheekbones all the more prominent in the worse way and my eyes seeming as wide as dinner plates.

There wasn’t anything soft left about me anymore, I was all sunken and sharp edges.

_I don’t think my brothers would recognize me if they saw me now._

With the mirror being a general disappointment and not wanting to waste any more time on it, I turned away. I shrugged on my blouse, and buttoning it quickly before tugging on the matching OD jacket, pulling my hair out from underneath the collar. Peaking back at the mirror, I could see the jacket fit well enough, and it covered the largeness of the skirt and blouse.

 _Eh,_ I decided. _Could have turned out much worse._

Sliding into the seat of the vanity, I spread out what cosmetics I had left. They were few and precious: some face powder I could no longer wear (unless I desired to look like a clown), rouge, mascara and lipstick. From what I’d seen, it was always the make up the seemed to be the choice of wartime armor for civilians and for me it became no different: red lips, dark eyes, and black lashes.

The entire process took less than five minutes. I really only used the lipstick, a vivid red that I’d bought on impulse in New York, that seemed to just pop. I wasn’t used to the feeling though, and had to consciously keep myself from licking my lips. All I needed before going off to war were lips chapped enough to drive me insane before I had the possibility of being shot at. I worn my hair the same way I’d been wearing it since Sicily, in a plain a simple braid.

It was eleven forty-five by the time I was done, and the squirrely Sgt. Evans was knocking at the door. The ride to wherever I was being taken was quiet, without a word being said between us—something I was eternally grateful for seeing as I knew I’d be talking soon enough.

I was opening the jeep door before we’d even fully stopped, my heeled feet hitting the muddy ground as I looked around. From what I could see, the men were already in formation before a small stage, standing at attention in their neat little rows. They were all dressed in their M42 uniforms, all wearing their garrison caps. It was a sight really; even I had to admit they were much more polished than the 82nd had been when I’d first seen them in North Africa.

“Good morning, Miss Mason,” Colonel Sink greeted, shaking my hand. “Seems you do clean up nicely.”

“Well this isn’t the Marine Corps, is it?”

Sink didn’t even bat an eye at my passive aggressive attempt to throw his words back in his face. His mouth just gave a quick quirk before his feature cooled, returning to what an idea Colonel was to be in front of his men.

“Let’s get this show on the road, little lady.”

With those words I was following him, my heels clicking up the five steps before I came to stand behind Sink. I tried not to think of how every trooper’s gaze below was burning into me as I stared at nothing straight ahead, my hands clasped together to stop any fidgeting.

“ _Atten-shun!_ ” And as if moving like a single entity, the troops all stood ramrod straight. I had to admit, it was always interesting to see it happen. Within a moment, Colonel Sink was waving them off.  “At ease, gentlemen.”

I could have sworn I heard every man exhale at once and relax.

“Now, I’m sure you boys are all wonderin’ why you’ve been asked to report here of all places. And I’m here to tell you first the majority of the rumors are false.”

_The Army has more leaks than a sinking ship._

“The Airborne is the newest branch of the US military, and by God, the 101st is the best and finest the US Army has to offer. And, as the best, we’ve been given the opportunity to have a war correspondent imbedded with us in the field.”

Sink paused, letting his word sink in to the troopers listening before continuing with ease, as if they weren’t waiting with baited breath to hear his every word.

“You will treat _her_ ,” Sink emphasized in his no nonsense tone,“with the respect of an officer.”

If there is a sound way to introduce yourself to a new company as their correspondent, I’ve yet to find it. You never know how they’ll react to a complete strange barging into their world, disrupting what they’ve built just so you can tagalong to see the bloodshed. Your first impression could leave a terrible taste in their mouth, and that’s it. The rest of the time spent with them will be torture, iced out. I’ve seen it happen first hand, leaving a correspondent to beg and pled for a reassignment or their career ends. Only one of many fears to live with, I’ve found it was better to dive straight into it than plan, so I did just that when Sink gives me the floor to say a fear words.

“My name is Eleanor Mason, and since 1942 I’ve been in the field from Guadalcanal to Sicily.” I announce as I moved to stand beside Colonel Sink, my eyes searching the faces of the troopers below. All of them seemed to wearing a look of disbelief or confusion as I spoke. “I have spent the last eight months in the hospitality of the Marines in the Pacific. They were all great men, but I have a feeling that the 101st will give them a run for their money.”

With nothing more to say, I stepped back and allowed my words to sink in allowing Sink to take the reigns again. As he spoke, I couldn’t help but really look at the faces of the troopers, they were all so young, but sometimes it was hard to remember we all were. Looking them over, I couldn’t help but smile as my eyes fell onto Frank, who looked very much like a cat who ate the canary.

_Not hard to see where the rumors probably came from then._

"Gentlemen, Miss Mason will be a constant in our lives here while in England, and beyond.” There were a few ripples at those words, but they were quickly silenced with a single look from Sink. “Now, with those words in mind men, dismissed!”

And with that, I was following Sink off the stage and down the stairs, towards Lt. Meehan who was standing only a few feet away with two fellow officers. As we came to stand before them, the three men saluted the Colonel in sync, with Meehan offering me a small smile in greeting. I just nodded back, before looking at the two officers standing beside him. They were complete opposites in complexion; the taller of the two was a lean, red head, with almost pale alabaster skin and a rather serious look on his face as he stood at ease, his hands clasped behind his back.

_A natural leader._

The second officer looked familiar though I couldn’t place him. He contrasted his fellow redheaded officer by being all dark featured and brown eyed. I couldn’t put my finger on what seemed so recognizable about him, and I could feel a frown tugging at my mouth. The longer I look at him, the more his smile seemed like a small smirk, like he was in on a joke.

“These are two of the officers you’ll be having the most contact with beyond Meehan and myself. The first here is 1st Lieutenant Richard Winters, Easy Company XO,” Sink said gesturing to the redhead whose hand I shook solidly before looking towards the familiar looking brunet. “The second here is 2nd Lieutenant Lewis Nixon, Battalion S-2 or, as you may know it, intelligence. Everything you send off will go through them for the censors.”

Oh.

_“That’s easy to remedy. 2 nd Lieutenant Lewis Nixon of the US Army at your service ma’am.”_

The realization hit as I shook Nixon’s softly calloused hand, and as if he knew that I finally put the pieces together, his smirk grew tenfold. I hadn’t really thought about the night spent at the Savoy’s bar, mostly because just thinking the day after hurt, but I knew that was where he was from. Mister Vat 69, Mister Hypothetically Speaking was goddamn Army intelligence.

As I dropped Nixon’s hand, I gave a smile that was more teeth than anything else.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: therumorsofwar.tumblr.com for updates and pretty things.


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